Sometimes you see the wheels spinning clearly in Henry's eyes and for a brief moment you know precisely the assumptions and choices that led him to his present conclusion. If you blink you'll miss your chance and the revealing moment will scurry back into the ether (like Bigfoot into the deep woods). I cherish these moments when I catch them.

Whenever Henry sprouts a new 1/4 inch in height, he drifts around and tries to touch everything he couldn't the week before. Call it doing rounds. He's still unable to flick on our gas fireplace, but is close enough to call my attention to the switch. He stretched his arm up as much as he could and showed deep desire in his eyes.

"That switch isn't safe. We can't turn the fire on." I waved my hands in a "no" sign.

He processes it for a few moments, then almost turned white.

"The fire isn't safe."

He seriously looked around the room and keyed in on the baseboards. He then began slowly touching the baseboards, looking up at the switch, meeting my eyes, and then repeated himself -- all with deep intensity.

The conclusion was clear -- that switch made fire shoot out of our baseboards. If he wants to believe that and stay away from the switch, I think that's great.